


The Closer You Get to the Light

by Morbane



Category: Invisible Light - Scissor Sisters (Song)
Genre: Constructive Criticism Welcome, Creepy, Gen, POV First Person, Stalking, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 14:22:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1782202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morbane/pseuds/Morbane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is perfect for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Closer You Get to the Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Measured_Words](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Measured_Words/gifts).



I saw _her_ for the second time today, and now I am sure.

A week ago we rode the subway together, and I hoped. When she stepped into the compartment, I caught my first glimpse of her, and her quite ordinary features - deep-set eyes edged with crows'-feet, at odds with signs of youth; a long, hooked nose - did not explain the _shiver_ that she sent across the crowd and down my spine. I didn't stare, of course, though I wanted to, more fiercely than I've wanted anything in years. If she were not the right one, then I would only unsettle her, and if she were - then I would cherish the first moment when she truly looked at me, and I would make sure that it occurred in the right way, at the right time.

When she left the subway car at last - I stayed on after my usual stop - I caught what flashes of her I could through the window. I saw sleek black hair, with an enchanting wave to it, falling over a soft, cotton collar. I wondered what she would look like in velvets and silks. I'd like to see her dance among a crowd who would adore her. I'd like to lead her through them on my arm.

I knew I would first have to find out if she rode the subway every day. I decided to ride into the city early the next day and get off at the stop she'd got on. But I couldn't find a place in Maddow station to stand where I could see the whole platform without drawing attention to myself. If she did come through that morning, she escaped me. I boarded a train again; I went to my job. I told myself to be patient. If she were truly the one, we would meet again. She would draw me to her, and I would nurture her.

I told myself I shouldn't think so much about her, but I find it hard to let go of an idea once it has come into my head. I dreamed about her. I rose and went through the motions of getting out clothes and preparing breakfast, and before I was quite awake, she followed me through my apartment like a ghost, brushing her fingers over the bowl I put on the bench of the little kitchenette, reaching for my elbow as though she were blind and I might lead her, following me into the shower and leaning her head on my back. I only wished she were clearer in my head. I wished I had a photo to focus on.

But I saw her again today.

I was meeting a city council manager in a bar in the late afternoon. It was a place on the lake's east front that I frequent more often in winter than in summer; at this point in late spring, the winds batted the smell of mud lazily back and forth across the water, from east to west and from the emptying mouth of the Lavish to the Keyhole flats between the Milton and the Green. But the breeze alleviated the heat, and so we sipped weak, pleasant sangria on the balcony. 

My work is in building permits. I check them and approve them. Occasionally I make suggestions to the architects who submit their plans. My suggestions are known to be helpful. It's just as well. They cannot proceed except with the approval of my office. Occasionally a newcomer, a recent graduate, or an unabashed cowboy of a constructor will go above my head and speak to someone like this council member with whom I was sharing a quiet afternoon hour. But he knows me better than them; he trusts me. When I make the effort, people like me.

I do see myself a little in my opponents. I was thought very arrogant, as a teenager and a young man. I knew the truth about myself and the world and I couldn't keep myself from dangling it just out of reach, or rubbing in the differences that others weren't quite aware enough to comprehend. I've been called a genius, but I've also been called delusional. That's very ironic. 

I see and understand more of this world than any who have called me delusional ever will. 

And in the shadows of the world, there are some who shine like stars, though they do not know it. She is one, and I will not just reveal myself, but _herself_ , to her.

The nearest pier to the bar where we were meeting has a structure halfway along it that is several stories high; it is an art gallery in the form of a lighthouse, and pedestrians may walk straight through its lowest level, or up either the inner or outer spiral stairs. As I was gazing out toward the lake, _she_ emerged on the stairs on the second level, with the lowering sun behind her. I had a vision: it was as if her shadow billowed out around her, a living thing, the somber, silky light like a sail. The words for this are all wrong, because the eyes of ordinary people cannot see it. Wrapped in the humid air, she was like the spirit of a thundercloud. She gave off the invisible light. She had a cellphone held up to her ear, and she was laughing.

I thought that now, if I happened to be in my office many tens of floors above the street, and she were crossing a bridge a mile away, I would still be able to pick her out, even if she were nothing but a dot among other dots.

It is hard not to think of other people in this city as dots, or ants, or beeps on a traffic counter. Their lives can barely be called lives. Occasionally I glance in a person's eyes and am almost shocked to find alertness looking back at me.

* * *

Because the people of this city live without ever looking up - certainly without looking _through_ their pretty, petty illusions - they are easy to follow. I was mistaken in another person, and I should have known it by this: he was too easy a mark. I thought he had the spark, but I was wrong. I thought he noticed me so quickly because of his insight, but it was only my own eagerness to be known.

That ended badly.

One woman I found - Rita, a name I savour although it was a decade ago - was truly gifted. But I wasn't the only one to notice her. The architects whose plans I dismiss consider themselves my enemies, but they are nothing compared to my actual enemies, although those often use such ordinary people as pawns. (I do that myself.) There are conspiracies against me everywhere. 

Rita was captivated by me, and grateful for all I told her, until my enemies spoke in her ears and told her that I was dangerous. They told her that they had better intentions for her. They told her that I meant to hurt her and that they could protect her. I have forgiven her, now, for being misled. Some of those who spoke against me wore the faces of friends or family whom Rita had known for a very long time. I don't know how my enemies got to them, but they did. When she refused to see me, I was angry, and when I saw _them_ draw sustenance from her presence, in my place, I grew desperate.

That ended badly, too.

So with this woman - this woman of dark hair and a radiance perfectly dark - I must be at once cautious, to lull her, and and urgent, to keep her from being stolen from me. 

I could have spent far more time tracking her than I permitted myself. Time is something I have in abundance. Other people cultivate friendships; I go through periods in which I find people interesting, and then I cast them off again. I place few demands on myself, beside my work.

In the next month, I gathered information. In following her, I learned that she taught at a school for young children. I learned her address. I learned that she had come to the city recently - so recently, in fact, that I was able to arrive at her house and speak to a woman who lived with her, on the pretext that a room in that house was still advertised somewhere as vacant. The roommate was reserved, but generous. She offered me coffee in lieu of a vacant room to see, and I persuaded her to talk a little. For myself, I invented passions for bowling and hydroponics. She ended my visit a little confused by me, I think. She said that it was just as well that we would not be living together. I laughed; I bid her well. I did not promise I would not see her again.

My visit to the house had benefited me enormously. I knew the name of the woman destined to be my treasure and the source of my power: Jessica. I knew that she grew physically tired quite easily, and sometimes took a cane with her when she went out. I learned that she did not cook very much for herself. I could not tell if she took any regular medicines; there were no pill bottles in the bathroom cabinet or in two other obvious places I was able to discreetly check. I knew that she used jasmine soap, or possibly calendula, depending on which of several products were hers.

* * *

After my visit to Jessica's house, I knew I must be even more careful; I must use the paperwork I had stolen, and other things I had gleaned, to build a picture of her remotely and gradually. A stranger who spoke to her roommate and then made himself known to her days later would spook her. It is a pity that women - and men - like Jessica who have this power never know it. It is sad that I must tell them. If they knew their own power of attraction, they would not be so surprised to be approached; they would embrace me as instantly, and eagerly, as I wish to encompass them.

Or perhaps it is meant this way so that their innocence will keep them safe. When my enemies spoke of my volatility, of the harm I meant to Rita, they were really speaking of themselves.

I changed my commuting habits and my working hours merely a little, to make it slightly more likely that I would pass Jessica on our ways through the city, and I was rewarded for my patience. After two long, humid, stormy weeks, I saw her on the street, sharing an umbrella with a friend, and followed them into a cinema. Standing three people behind them in line, I was able to discover their viewing choice; following them into the movie, I casually selected a seat close to them, with few to protest or care in a half-empty theatre. 

The friend was a fellow teacher. It seemed this was their only weekday afternoon in which neither was supervising an after-school activity. It seemed to be their second or third such outing together. I began to make a mental file for this woman, too.

It was glorious to sit so near to Jessica. I was close enough to smell her - and it was calendula that she used, not jasmine. I was close enough to hear her voice; I felt I could begin to learn it. And at last I was close enough to bask in the power that she gave off. I could feel myself becoming _more_. I had a sense of leaning over her - her presence felt as if it warped the gravity in the room - I had a sense of floating above my body and hers, as though I could touch her without touching her, or hold her, or pass through her. I tasted her shadow, and it was ambrosial. And this was only a hint of how things would be when she were mine.

All the information that I had gathered about her felt like the greatest and most wonderful of secrets that I was keeping _from_ her, and I didn't want to. I wanted to lean forward and say, "Surprise!" She had a protector, a benefactor, a patron, someone to worship and be worshipped by, and wouldn't anyone revel in knowing that? What I could tell her would place the world within her grasp, as it placed her within mine. I could tell her about forces and laws that until now had operated on her life without her awareness. My mistress would be mistress also of her fate.

But I sat in my seat, outwardly relaxed, sharing space with her only in my mind.

* * *

I was full of energy in the following days. I had received a promise from the world, and a foretoken of its fulfilment. I had absorbed a great deal of power from my Jessica. But it ebbed sooner than I hoped. Now I had a craving for her. The next time, I would not be content to see her; I must touch her soon. Even a brush of my hand across her hand would be enough, or to graze clothing through which the warmth of her body could be felt; but of course, I dreamed of a kiss.

The power ebbed in part because I was using it. I turned charm upon people in such quantities that I dazzled them. I told myself that I was practicing the persuasion I would use on Jessica, and I also told myself that because I was using it up so quickly, I should surely speak to her soon, while I was still lambent with _her_.

This was, of course, the argument I most wanted to be swayed by.

I went to a florist and bought a bright bouquet of gerberas, sunflowers, tulips, and cyclamen; something cheerful but not romantic. The best romances always begin with friendship, anyway, don't they?

There was a café that she visited on quiet evenings, often with a pile of folders for her lesson planning, sometimes with children's writing and drawing samples splashed about around her. Tonight my power - siphoned from her, _earned_ from her by my discretion and diligence thus far - caused it to be that she had no papers; she was only enjoying a quiet drink.

(I had not been so careless as to frequent the café myself, of course. Instead, I had often dined in the restaurants on the other side of the street. It is lucky that I am frugal; my efforts have been expensive thus far. But she will repay it all.)

I set up a kind of a skit: I went in with my flowers, bought a drink, and made a show of waiting for someone. I checked my phone. I placed an imaginary call and held an imaginary conversation, the gist of which was that the person I hoped for was not coming. I scanned the room. I had deliberately not looked Jessica's way when I entered. Now I went to her. I hid my feelings behind the flowers; I offered them to her, explaining that the person for whom they had been bought would not be joining me. Perhaps I could brighten a stranger's day with them instead. 

These flowers, I explained (briefly, ruefully) were for a friend who had had a bad day; but another mutual acquaintance was now looking after her. I wished to appear the thoughtful friend, not the rejected beau.

I was more successful than I could have hoped, perhaps because of how her proximity excited me; she asked me if there were anything I expected from her in return. Then I overstepped. "Why don't you give me your name," I said, smiling at her; and yet my smile did not penetrate; it did not reach her eyes.

"Jennifer," she said, with a slight hesitation.

"And I'm Edmund," I said, and judged it best to withdraw. "Have a lovely night, Jennifer." My second mistake; I, too, hesitated slightly on her name.

* * *

So, I have alerted her, now; I have frightened her. I didn't want to do that. I admit I felt a slight thrill when she looked at me and spoke - even though she uttered a lie. Though she meant to turn me aside, it was the nearest thing to an acknowledgement from her that I have yet had. I do not mind the false name. The flowers, after all, had a guise to them. 

But now I have played my hand, I shall have to keep playing. I like the image of a hand. Mine is a hand with claws; if I seem to pounce, if I seem to reach out to her with points bared, she will instead find herself nestled in the velvet pads between. Of course I am a danger to my enemies, but she is not my enemy. And I shall see to it that, unlike Rita, she never becomes one.

It will not take very much to change the look in Jessica's eyes from wariness to adoration. I only need to get her alone, in a quiet, peaceful place where the veils of the city can be shaken off, and she can see me clearly. I so badly want to have her in a room where we are the only two people - the only two people for miles, even - so that there is nothing for her to look at except me.

* * *

I have been clumsy again, but I think everything will work out as it should. I waited two whole weeks after giving Jessica my flowers. To assuage my frustration, I turned my gaze outward, scrutinizing the movements of the people of the city who have crossed me in the past. There was little suspicious activity among those who, like me, know the truths of the world, but even so, I worried. For example, one such person had a child at Jessica's school. That connection bothered me. I might need to intervene.

I approached Jessica again. I had not allowed nearly enough time to pass to soothe her. When she saw me on the street, she looked for an easy escape; of course, I had not given her any. It hurt me to frighten her. Perhaps I have not been as discreet in my enquiries as I hoped. I consoled myself that at any rate, I had left an impression. Although it was not as good as being seen by her, being _thought_ of by her still lent me strength.

I will not go into what I said, and what pressures I brought to bear. ThIt hardly matters; she already thinks ill of me, when I have done nothing to her. It is unfair of her, but I understand. For now.

I persuaded her to meet with me in a quiet spot. I promised her if she were not satisfied with my explanations, I would not trouble her again.

Whatever she thinks of me, this meeting will open her eyes entirely, and that is not a thing that one can step back from. She will know who she is: mine. I will explain that she is one of very few who give off this light that I need so much. Her purpose is to enhance my power. When understanding comes, she will not be able to deny it.

* * *

I have set everything in readiness. I compelled Jessica to meet me at the Old Docks, near the mouth of the Lavish, where it feeds the lake. Because these are the oldest piers, the ships and ship's trade have long moved further down the shore; this is now a gentrified area, with sculptures and shows.

There is an arcade there that leads towards a quieter complex, a garden terrace in view of a street. I asked Jessica to meet me in that garden, but I have deceived her a little. A favour called in with a building company has ensured that all other accesses to the garden, beside that arcade, are blocked; another favour called in with a city council friend has ensured that signs advise pedestrians that the arcade is closed for an inspection of the tunnel. I am overreaching a little, I know. And if this goes worse than it could... well. I shall tidy up the loose ends later, and elsewhere.

Finally, I hear her approach.

"You did not come alone," I say, mildly. It's disappointing, but I am not angry. Either her friends are worthy of her regard - unlikely, but possible - or I will discard them for her.

She moves into view with two others flanking her. Both these others, a man and a woman, are physically large, clearly strong. The man carries an implement I can't immediately make out. It might be a hockey stick. Ridiculous.

"I am not sure that you want your friends to hear what I have to say to you, Jessica," I begin. I am trying to frame the idea that what I have to say to her is intimate; these are _Jessica's_ powers, secrets about herself, that I am revealing to her. And of course, until she hears them, she will not understand.

The man grimaces when he hears me say Jessica's name, and the woman takes a step forward and interrupts me. "Frankly, this isn't about what you have to say to her, 'Edmund'," she says firmly. "You need to leave Jessica-" she stutters on the word; Jessica must have instructed her friends to call her Jennifer - "alone. You don't know her and you've got no right to impose on her. She doesn't want to see you ever again."

"Is that right, Jessica?" I say, stepping toward her. "I want to hear what you have to say." The man swings the hockey stick loosely, slapping it into the palm of his hand to warn me off, but I will not be warned off by _him_.

"That's right," Jessica says, a quiver in her voice, her gaze fixed at a point over my shoulder. Oh, that is not nearly a strong enough refusal for me.

"That's far enough," her female friend says, to my approach.

"You're right," I say. "It is. Jessica," I say, carefully, sweetly, with every last infusion of power I have. "Look at me."

We are only yards away from each other now.

She does look at me. Hers is not the adoring gaze I hoped for. But it is an intent gaze. I stand completely still, so as to keep her eyes from flinching away. I have the look of an ordinary person: I am of average height, I have brown hair, and I am wearing a light-coloured, collared shirt. I suppose I am forgettable.

Except in her eyes.

"See," I croon, because I know what she sees. My shadow will be billowing like hers did, on that day on the tower. I will seem taller now, and crackling with an aura that even her mundanes can see, like a strange dark fur around me, rippling and responsive.

The humans see other things, too. "You didn't come alone," the man croaks out. 

"No," I agree.

My allies are drawn to my queen; she is a fountain from whom they, too, wish to drink. They are gathering behind me. Some look like ordinary men and women; some have with glittering faces; some have horns and wings - some have claws. 

"Welcome to the shadows," I say to Jessica, as I lead my followers into the light.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Kaesa, Naraht, and Aeriel for suggestions! I worked in what I could, and I probably could have stood to work in more, too. I'm glad I had your comments.


End file.
